Out of the Darkness
by KendylGirl
Summary: A follow-up to "Into the Woods," we pick up with The Witnesses back in Sleepy Hollow, amid the tumult S3 events. A mixture of canon and AU occurring post-3.08. **I am ravenous always to know your thoughts; please give me any feedback that you can!**
1. Trapped

All she sees is white.

Her vision is obscured by a thick mask of what seems to be fog, but it doesn't roll or billow. There is no dampness, no scent of laden vegetation, no whisper of wind. Abbie winces. The intense brightness stabs at her eyes. She is unable to blink; she has no hands to shield her face. The pain pulses inside her skull.

Her instinct is to duck and run. _Keep your head down, Mills. Find a way out of this_. What is the terrain here? Is her weapon still clipped to her belt? Maybe there's a road nearby…

Her thoughts are fleeting, for she suddenly realizes that she hasn't moved. She feels no spasm of muscle nor extension of bone. Is she paralyzed? She cannot determine if her toes have been sheared off or if her legs are severed. Is she even standing up? All she knows is the agony of the unrelenting light.

Abbie gulps as naked panic surges in her. She cannot expand her chest to suck in her next breath. When she was five, Abbie had wound herself in a down comforter during a game of hide-and-seek; she wasn't found until two hours later, bawling and shaking. She had inadvertently rolled under her parents' bed and pinned herself between the frame and the floor, utterly helpless. That petrifying smother of claustrophobia surfaced in countless nightmares since, including the current one into which she has fallen. She grits her teeth and lashes out, desperate to flail her limbs, to strike wood or stone. She HAS to get out. She twists and claws, kicks and pulls, emptying every ounce of will she has left.

Nothing.

Silent screams rip from her. "WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?"

 _You're alone, Abbie. What a pity._

The voice resonates in her head, it's smug mocking familiar: Pandora.

 _You failed in your mission. Your sister really should have known you would. I mean, that's your pattern, isn't it? Oh, well, no matter. She served her purpose._

Abbie's eyes scorch with unshed tears.

 _It's too bad about your fellow Witness, though. We could've had such fun with him! But you ruined it. It's your fault he's dead._

"LIAR!" Abbie's desperate shriek dies in her throat.

Pandora's girlish chuckle spreads like glass shards through her brain. _So much for your lover's galant rescue!_ More delighted giggles slice her. _I have to go now, Abbie. I hate to leave you, but you had to know it would end this way, right? You—alone, abandoned…forgotten._

The silence returns.

Abbie's mind is shredded. To save Jenny, she had marched willingly into another tortuous realm; she'd chosen this fate, whatever it was. That she could accept. But not…

Crane.

Crane is dead?

That could **not** be true.

Not him. No. No no no no…

He was her miracle. Their entwined path was the one treasure granted them in requital of all else; of the normal, careful lives each had once imagined; of the freedom offered by blissful ignorance to apocalyptic evil. Despite the bizarre dangers that surrounded them daily, they had stumbled into true happiness. Tenderness, laughter, fire, love: it was all she'd ever wanted, and far more than she ever thought she'd find. Could all of that—could _he_ —really be gone?

Abbie scrapes together whatever remains of her wits. Images spark in her unblinking eyes: a cocked eyebrow, long fingers folding around hers, a protective forearm encircling her waist; pale legs tangled with her own; a hypnotic deep blue stare, searching.

Vaguely a coherent thought dawns: her heart still must beat, or it would be impossible for it now to break. And if **she** had survived this against any conceivable odds, then maybe, just maybe…

Tendrils of fragile hope seep from her depths and into the irrepressible fog. _Ichabod, I'm here...Please come, please find me…Ichabod…_

The crushing pain behind her eyes finally simmers and explodes, and the bright white overtakes all.


	2. Emptiness

The house is dark.

Blank windows frame the porch, the heavy silence warped in intervals by the moan of the swing on its chains. Crane is slumped down, his head supported by the thick bar of the seat back, bare heels digging into the wooden slats of the floor. His thin t-shirt and pajama pants are no match for the bite of December wind, but the empty expression of his face betrays no discomfort, nor any emotion at all. His eyes stare up, unseeing.

One month. She'd been gone one month.

Jenny had forced him into the house, which at first, he'd been unwilling—terrified, really—to enter. Her coffee mug next to the stove, her favorite boots next to the door, the lingering scent of her favorite lotion: how could he possibly be expected to endure these? He could not just fall back into an existence that was a worthless, that was _finished_ , without the one person who had given everything life, without Abbie. He had shrieked all of this until his voice was hoarse, towering over Jenny like a man possessed; and she had listened patiently, grief and empathy deep in her eyes.

Then, when he'd quieted, she punched him square in the jaw.

"Shut up. She's **cannot** be dead. Keep going. We'll get her back. There _has_ to be a way. Find it. _Do it._ "

Jenny had forced him to live. She'd forced food into his face, forced hygiene, forced conversation. Ichabod wanted none of it. The only activity he had a tick of time for was research, and it engulfed his every waking hour. It was a grueling, merciless pursuit, but it could not fail.

 _Without Abbie_. The phrase itself is a swallow of chalky poison.

He rolls his gaze to the black rectangle of the front door frame. An internal vision overwhelms him: Abbie's return from Quantico. He had heard the car pull up, heard the click of her heels on the sidewalk, heard the rumble of her rolling bag as it crossed the the porch planks. When he heard the jingle of her keys, he had ripped the door open. Eyes flown wide, delicious red lips parted, cheeks flushed in surprise and excitement—she had been irresistible, as always, and Crane could not keep himself from lifting her at the waist and swinging her into the house.

In the darkness, Crane's ears echo with Abbie's lilting laughter. He cannot stamp the memory down fast enough before he can also feel her soft skin under his fingers and taste the strawberry of her lip balm.

The familiar searing in his chest flares, knocking his breath from his throat. He screws his eyes shut and sets his jaw to ride out the wave of pain until he is able to inhale again, unsteadily.

Lowered lids allow exhaustion to sink into the edges of his mind. Elusive sleep threatens, at last.

But as he descends into unconsciousness, Abbie's face forms in the shadows and hovers before him. Her tender eyes, copper-flecked, seem tinged with sadness; her hair blows around her face like a halo. She reaches out to him, pleading in echoes, "Ichabod, I'm here...Please come, please find me…Ichabod…"

Crane snaps awake, bolt upright, the swing stuttering beneath him. He blinks rapidly, adrenaline surging, and grips the armrest with bloodless fingers. _Oh, God._ As his trembling hand rakes across his scalp, the image replays itself. _She is afraid_ , he acknowledges sickeningly. He cannot allow himself to wonder beyond that, to imagine what horrors she was fighting. _No. Focus, Ichabod._

He is rattled by the dream, but for the first time in four weeks, he has hope. True to form, she had managed the impossible: she had reached across the gulf to contact him. It was up to him to do the rest.

She _is_ alive, somewhere.

Crane presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, conjuring her image once more. He telegraphs his own words, from so long ago, into the chasm: "Hold fast, Abigail Mills; I'm on my way."


	3. No Way Out

"Let me help you, Abbie."

The voice caresses her ear, so soft and gentle. She jerks away, heart thudding. "No," she gurgles, working her eyes open to a slit through the blood-crusted lashes. She hangs forward from the pole her wrists are lashed to, red saliva draining from her mouth and pooling at her bare feet. She shudders, though from the frigid cold or from the throbbing pain, she cannot tell anymore.

"And still she does not learn," a light voice comments from behind her.

"It would seem so," growls the other..

A dark swoop crosses Abbie's hazy vision; then, a face thrusts itself into hers, golden eyes glinting. "What drives you, human? Why must you resist?"

The Hidden One.

Abbie tries to answer by spitting in his face, but she cannot get her jaw to work. Instead, she can only splutter a moan. She shifts her knees forward in an effort to relieve the ripping in her shoulder joints by leaning back against the wooden spike. A fierce wave of agony engulfs her. She does not want to react, but her very efforts to breathe push a high-pitched whine in and out of her throat.

"How long must we continue to do this, human?" the deep voice demands. "I grow weary of this game."

"You've been ever so patient, my sweet," the other voice coos. "Perhaps she is not worth our time. If she does not bow to you, the Destroyer finally must be destroyed!" Pandora's delighted giggle bubbles and fades.

The golden eyes narrow slightly, and there is a violent stab to Abbie's gut. "I own you, Witness. Your fate is mine to decide. How can you not understand this? If you acquiesce, your pain will stop."

"And your glory can begin!" Pandora pipes in.

Abbie is near her end. She can feel it under the layers of searing agony, through the metallic blood lining her throat and the exhaustion that drags on her wasted bones. She is trapped, and she knows it. Through the slit of her eyelids, she sees a dark creature crawl onto her foot. It stabs and bites with razor claws, but all she can do is watch it rend her flesh into ribbons.

From somewhere deep within her, she sees a scorpion under glass stab at her abdomen, her own wrists bound by black fabric. A hideous angular finger creeps toward her forehead. A face etched with worry, drenched in sweat, asks intently if she is all right. Without a thought, Crane had guzzled the mysterious green fluid to be at her side in the dreamworld. _He loved me, even then_. Didn't he? It seems so long ago. Wasn't that how it happened? The images blur. She tries to dig back and pull up his face again. _God, please, let me see him one more time._ Only a grey haze wraps itself around her, cutting off her last hope for redemption.

At length, she hears an exasperated rumble. "You stink, Witness. You bear the lingering stench of Humanity," The Hidden One sneers. "Before you take a place in my kingdom, you must be cleansed."

Pandora's voice sounds distant. "It's time, Abbie. You're so close now…so close…"

Beneath her, there is a low, tremorous thunk. Abruptly, Abbie feels herself weightless before she crashes into water. Everything is black. She writhes in circles but cannot right herself to figure out how to rise, to find her way to the surface. The binding has fallen away from her wrists, but her arms flail uselessly as she's drawn into the absent, inky depths. The pressure against her eardrums intensifies, her lungs scream in her chest. She cannot hold out. Air bubbles from her lips and she wrenches, trying not to inhale the liquid. _No! I can't…I…help me…Ichabod!_


	4. From the Depths

The dank stone of Pandora's lair echoes with the incantation's final syllables. At the top of the short swoop of stairs, at the gaping maw of the tree's opening, Crane holds his breath. His eyes bore into the darkness, willing it to open and accept him into its depths.

* * *

In the week since Abbie's face had appeared to him, he had tried a slew of different spells pieced together from every obscure, dubious tome that he could secure in his accelerated frenzy of research. These had degraded into bizarre language quilts of Greek, Sumerian, Chinese, Latin, and Egyptian, invoking rites and deities rare and estranged from the scope of human history. Jenny had watched his haste, her uneasiness growing with each reckless attempt, ones that now skirted with the use of dark magic. Tonight, finally, she could not keep quiet.

"Crane, are you sure about this? If you run down there and try every spell that you find, you might end up releasing something you don't want released. I mean, have you even translated this completely? Do you really know what this is going to do?"

Crane did not look her at her. He swept on his coat and strode to the door. "Miss Jenny, I appreciate your concern, but—"

"Seriously, Crane, you don't want to end up in a worse situation."

At that, he froze with his back to her, the doorknob in his hand. "Worse? _Worse_?" He rounded to face her. Perhaps it was the shadows cast by the fading sun that trickled through the front windows, but his haggard features held an element of danger that took even Jenny by surprise. "How could _any of this_ be worse? Do you think for a moment that I fear a demon emerging from the depths? Should that cause me alarm? I care not! Let any demon who dare come before me. I shall cut them all down, _any_ thing that gets in my way!"

Jenny's jaw dropped slightly, and she took an unconscious step backwards, hitting the coffee table with her calves. Her shock managed to pierce the layers of his ferocity. The edge of fire in his eyes dimmed slightly, and he lowered his head. "Forgive me, Miss Jenny. I was not suggesting I would attempt to harm…" He closed the door soundlessly and clasped his hands behind him, his tone tight and bitter. "She saved us—without hesitation, without a single thought for herself, she saved us all. The very last words she had before entering the portal was for _our_ welfare. And now, she is…"

Crane faltered, uncertain how to explain the depth to which Abbie's image had haunted his every moment. In the years he'd known her, with all of the horrible creatures and desperate circumstances they'd faced, he could recall no instance of her exhibiting fear; often, it was her iron resolve that was _his_ anchor, buoying his spirit, no matter how insurmountable their task. But he had seen it, the fear dusting the curves of her face like frost and seizing Ichabod's chest in its icy grip.

Of late, that grip had ominously tightened.

"She counts upon me to retrieve her. I cannot fail."

"Look, Crane, she's my sister. I want her back, too. I know how—"

"No! No, Miss Jenny, you _don't_ know!" he hissed, lurching forward and grabbing her by the shoulders.

Her eyebrows knit together in a line. She raised her palms to the side in frustrated askance.

Crane ran a hand down his face and breathed in and out deeply through his nose, beating back the well of panic he could no longer ignore. "Something has shifted for her, wherever she is. I can feel it inside me, as sure as my own heartbeat. Our window of time to extract her is closing. If I do not bring her back soon—" his voice cracked, reduced to a dry whisper, "—she will be lost."

"What does that mean? Are you talking 'permanently'?"

" _Forever_."

"You've got to be kidding me!" Jenny clenched her fists and began to pace the small area between the door and the kitchen. "Since when does the supernatural come with a damn expiration date?" She slammed her fists down on the counter, rocking the spice jars in their rack. "How much time do we have?"

"I do not know," Crane returned, his voice hollow. He glanced at her over the collar of his coat. "Not long."

* * *

The seconds tick by in silence. The shaft of moonlight from beyond the tree's crippled branches illuminates only a fat cloud of dust that wafts languidly down to the pool of water below.

Jenny and Joe, who had stood guard by the entrance, exchange a mournful look.

As the seconds stretch into minutes, Jenny makes her way reluctantly to the foot of the stairs. "Crane, I guess we should—"

She's thrown to the ground when the cave is rocked by a tremor, as if crustal plates had slid beneath their feet. Joe skids to her side to help her up, but both are leveled by the next quake. A fissure erupts, splitting the floor from one wall of the other, and the pool of water churns and spouts over its rim. Crane grips a knot of the tree in a vice to steady himself, fending off falling branches and chunks of stone. He coughs in the thick billow of particles as the tremors fade.

When he is finally able to peer over the edge of the stairs to check on the other two, he catches a glimpse of a dark shape floating in the unsettled water. It freezes the blood in his veins.

"Dear God, _Abbie_!"

Crane reaches the last step and vaults over their heads before Jenny and Joe can register what has happened. He plucks Abbie from the pool with one arm and cradles her to his chest, repeating her name in a tortured whisper, over and over, as if it were also a spell to be cast. She does not speak or move; streams of water run from her hair and from between her paled lips. Her right arm falls away, and Crane snatches it back, placing it carefully in her lap, inwardly horrified by the bruises and scrapes that mar it.

Joe lays a cautious hand on his shoulder. "Crane, can I…?" He holds up the medical kit he has brought.

"Let Joe check her out, Crane, to make sure she's all right," Jenny encourages.

Ichabod nods absently but refuses to let her go. Instead, he sinks to the ground, supporting Abbie's limp form with his own body, resting her head upon his shoulder. Joe opens his mouth to protest, but judging from the other man's red-rimmed eyes and set jaw, it would be fruitless to argue. Instead, he gets to work, checking her vitals, reporting as he goes: "Breathing regular…pulse steady…pupils responsive…body temp low, might be hypothermic." He places his fingertips to strategic points. "Nothing appears broken, though she's a bit…banged up…" His eyes flicker to Crane's face, a stone mask. "I bet she's dehydrated, too. We should get her out of here, get her some fluids."

Joe closes his bag and retreats to Jenny's side. "I'll go get the truck." He squeezes her elbow and jogs out of the cavern.

"Why…why has she not…" Crane's unsteady voice fades as he fights to retain his composure.

"I'm sure it's exhaustion, Crane," Jenny supplies, clearing her throat to keep her own tears at bay. "She'll wake up soon. If I know my sister, she'll be ordering all of us around in no time." She smiles weakly.

Crane boosts Abbie higher against him and stands up, draping his coat over the both of them. He brushes back the matted hair from her forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to the clammy skin.

Then, he feels it: the slight curl of tiny fingers around the collar of his shirt, bunching the fabric just a hair. A whisper, scarcely more than a breath, brushes his ear. "Home..."

That's it. Relief overwhelms him, makes him lightheaded, and he staggers a few steps. There is nothing he can do now to stem the tears; shamelessly, they baptize Abbie's crown where his cheek rests upon it. "Yes, Abigail, yes! You have returned; you are safe, you are safe now," he babbles, squeezing her as tight as he dare.

Finally, Jenny gives a watery laugh, wiping her face on her sleeves. "Ok, ok, enough already! I just have to say that this cave sucks big time, and I am sick of it, so I don't know about you guys, but I am outta here." She slaps Crane on the back, turns on her heel, and strides out.

Ichabod pauses for a small moment, simply to relish the feel of Abbie— _his_ Abbie—in his arms once again, after the interminable days and intolerable nights without her. Then, he tucks the edges of his coat under her knees and around the frail knobs of her shoulders. "Come, Lieutenant, let's go home."

Stepping beyond the fissure, he carries Abbie over the threshold and into the night.


	5. The Way Back, Part 1

The entire ride to the house, Jenny can hear Crane in the back murmuring to Abbie. He still has her folded in his arms, not releasing her for even a moment since she had surfaced in the cave, shrugging off all offers of help. Jenny knows that he has rarely slept in five weeks and has to be near collapse; despite this, he had hiked the rough forest terrain to the truck without a single misstep, opened the back door, and slid into the seat, all the while focused entirely on his precious bundle. She cannot make out what he says to Abbie, but his voice is silken smooth, a caress; the hands that sweep down her back and comb carefully through her tangled locks as gentle as a puff of air.

Abbie does not respond. Her fingers are still fixed around the collar of Crane's shirt, her head resting on his shoulder, in the crux of his neck. Once or twice, Jenny hears her groan softly, more of a whimper, and Ichabod adjusts position and continues to speak quietly in words meant only for her.

But when they stop at a light and she turns casually to ask if he needs the heat cranked up, Jenny is unprepared to meet the hard flint in his eyes, every bit as deadly as she had seen it before they had left that evening, and the question dies on her lips. She shoots Joe a side-eye as she faces forward; he peeks in the rearview mirror and shrugs.

The drive is achingly long, but finally they turn a corner and the house's front porch comes into view. Joe, who had been mindful to take every curve slowly and avoid what potholes he could, maneuvers the truck into the driveway and coasts to a stop. He leaps out and heads for the hatch, digging through the gear. He hauls two heavy black duffels to the front door and lets himself in, propping it open for the others.

Jenny comes in behind Crane and Abbie, sliding the deadbolt into position as an afterthought. She sheds her coat and boots and opens one of the bags to help Joe prepare the supplies. "Just go ahead and put her down on the couch," she says brusquely to Crane, all business, pulling out sections of an IV pole and screwing them together.

At first Ichabod does not move. He glances down at Abbie's passive face, loath to disturb her if she's found a moment of peace. In the deep recess of his mind, though, it is just the idea of losing the reassurance of physical contact with her that has him filled with dread, as if she might simply vanish like an enticing mirage, a vision born of wicked desperation cursing him to merely imagine the events of the last several hours. Suddenly, he will wake with a start from the dining room table, cheek stuck to a book page, and find himself still alone, still with the urgent, aching hole in his heart.

Jenny's voice, softer than before, interrupts his thoughts. "It's all right, Crane. Please. Let us treat her."

He relents, slowly kneeling in front of the couch so that he can keep Abbie against him until the last possible moment. As he moves his arms from beneath her, she grumbles faintly and reaches out for him.

Ichabod takes her hand, massaging it lightly with the pad of his thumb. "Worry not, Lieutenant, I shall not be far."

Jenny and Joe descend upon her, getting her fluids started, taking her temperature, and giving her several different injections. Crane hovers around her, involuntarily cataloging her injuries: the welt on her left tricep, the purple bruise covering the entirety of her right forearm, the scratches on her neck, the swollen and blackened left eye, and a hideous red bullseye on her stomach that shows when her shirt rides up. He wonders if she remembers the ordeal and how she came to be in this condition. With a shudder, he prays she does not. Abruptly, he flinches as they pierce her battered skin with needles, clutching his hands behind his back and digging his nails into his own skin to resist the impulse to grab the implements and crush them beneath his heel when Abbie's forehead crinkles and she stutters a moan.

When finally they finish, Joe gives brief instructions and promises he'll return to remove the IV after his shift. Ichabod covers Abbie with a fleece blanket and sinks down onto the floor next to the couch so he can watch her face while she sleeps.

Jenny curls up in the armchair. Her eyelids are heavy, but she massages her temples and fights to stay awake. "Along with the fluids, Joe gave her stuff for pain and to make her comfortable so she can sleep."

"I am grateful for all of Master Corbin's efforts."

"Yeah, me, too. It's not like we could take her to the hospital without a bunch of questions that we couldn't really answer." She clears her throat. "So, are **you** all right, Crane?"

He keeps his eyes on Abbie. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

Jenny snorts. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because the look on your face makes it seem like you could rip the head off a kitten with your teeth."

At that he swivels her way, eyes wide, edged with fury. "And what do you expect? Miss Jenny… _Look at her!"_ he bit out, straining to keep his voice low. "This should **not** have happened, not to her! Somehow, I…I should have—"

"Should have what? How would you have stopped it? Did you have some genie in a bottle that you forgot to tell me about? It's not like she took a trip to Disneyland. She has literally been to Hell and back!"

Crane's eyes darkened, his tremulous lips dry, colorless lines. "Whatever she was forced to endure…" He shakes his head, tears threatening to spill. "It's as if her suffering was for _sport_."

Jenny bows her head, rubs her eyes for a long time. "I know." she says, suddenly distraught. "Look, I was the idiot, all right? I was the one who handled the shard like a freaking amateur when I should have known better. I was careless, and I was stupid, and-" She throws her arms in the air. "Abbie was only there to be their little play-toy because she had to save _me_! And you don't think this pisses me off, too?" She is panting, forcing down the sob that fills her throat.

Crane immediately feels like an ass. In his ferocious tumult of emotions, he's lost all perspective, lost sight of the fact that he is not the only one who has been wracked with guilt and anger. He is not the only one who loves Abbie. "Sincerest apologies, Ms. Jenny," he offers quietly. "You're not—"

Jenny holds up a hand. She takes several deep, cleansing breaths. "Forget it, Crane. It's the mission, right? At least we have her back now." She looks at Abbie for a long moment, then whispers, "Just know that I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat."

He nods, "As would I, Ms. Jenny, as would I."


	6. The Way Back, Part 2

"Ichabod?"

His eyes blink open. Fingers of midday sun filter through the slats of the blinds behind the kitchen sink. He raises his head from the couch cushion, not sure if he is in the midst of a dream. Abbie's face greets him, pale and tired, but alert.

"Lieutenant?"

Her lips quirk in a faint smile. "Hi."

To this point in his life, he's not heard a more beautiful word.

"Good morning," is all he can manage. He scrambles up from the floor and sits on the edge of the cushion. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I jumped out of an airplane without a parachute." Her voice is raspy. She looks at the IV tube in her hand, ghosts over the lump and bruises on her arm. "I guess I look like it, too."

"Can I get you something? Tea, perhaps?"

"I'd love some."

He tucks her blanket around her, kisses her forehead, and moves to the stove to grab the kettle.

Jenny sweeps into the room. "I'll take some, too, Crane!" She puts her elbows on the back of the couch and leans over to grin at her sister. "How ya doin', Abs?"

Abbie swallows hard, holding up her arms as far as she can; Jenny comes around and clutches her in a long hug.

"Captain America over there was more than happy to bunk on the hardwood—he wasn't about to go anywhere—but I needed to stretch out in the guest room for a few hours if I'm going to have any hope of being functional today. Some of us actually have jobs to go to," she winks.

Crane supplies them with a tray of steaming tea and toast. He holds his own cup between both hands and slides back into the armchair, watching the two women and their comfortable banter with a mixture of amusement and awe. Weeks ago, during his darkest hours of fruitless reading, he had wrestled with the cold terror that this moment might never come. On this afternoon, though, the golden sunshine fills the corners of the room, coaxed in by the teasing voices of the Mills sisters. This space, that had been as desolate as a crypt only the day before, had returned to life.

There's a light knock on the door. Crane disengages the lock to allow Joe to enter. "So, how's the patient?" he drawls, kneeling in front of the couch.

Abbie squeezes his forearm. "Better, thanks to you."

"Nah, just the miracle of balanced electrolytes." He looks her over, then grabs his bag. "Ok, let's get you unhooked." He carefully extracts the IV and bandages her hand. When he and Jenny had packed up all of his supplies, he turns to Crane. "She should be all right, but call me if you need anything."

"I will indeed. Thank you, Master Corbin."

Jenny follows him out but stops by Crane at the front door, crossing her arms and staring him down.

Crane flushes. "Miss Jenny, I must beg your forgiveness. My behavior of late has been inexcusable."

Jenny's eyebrow shoots up and she purses her lips. "I get it, Crane. Really. I'd have been pissed if you **hadn't** acted like a jerk." He gives her a questioning look. "If it wasn't so obvious that you love my sister as much as you do, believe me, I'd have cut your balls off and fed them to you." She pats him sweetly on the cheek.

Abbie gasps, "Jenny!"

"Later, Abs!" she calls and shuts the door behind her.

Abbie grimaces. "I'm sorry, Crane. She is so out of line."

Crane sighs ruefully, returning to her side and capturing her hand between his. "Not entirely, I'm afraid. My company has been rather…challenging in your absence."

She takes in his appearance fully. His cheeks are pale and sunken, but the skin under his eyes is dark. Her fingers brush over his unkempt beard and ragged hair. She squeezes his hand. "You've had a hard time, haven't you?"

"Ms. Jenny told me three days ago that I smell like a locker room. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I'm quite certain it wasn't a compliment."

Abbie snorts. "Well, since I feel like the floor of a subway car, we make quite a pair." She lays back against the pillows and sighs. "I sure wish I had the energy to get cleaned up."

"Say no more." Ichabod promptly stands and scoops her up, arching an eyebrow. "Allow me to offer you my grooming services, madame." Abbie breathes a laugh against his neck as he mounts the stairs, elbows the bathroom door open, and places her on the closed toilet lid. "Shall I run you a hot bath?"

Abbie winces. "Umm…I think that it will be a while before I want to submerge myself in water. That's just a little too…" Her shrug is more of a shudder.

Crane glances around him and nods firmly. "Shower it is, then." She opens her mouth to protest, but Crane places a finger against her lips. "Trust me."

She does.

He turns the shower on and sets the dial to an appropriately scorching temperature. He sheds his own clothes quickly, dumping them into a pile in the tub. With care, he unbuttons Abbie's shirt, easing it over her shoulders and tugging it off her arms, one by one. He unhooks her bra with two fingers, and it joins the pile in the tub. He unclasps her jeans and raises her to a standing position, inching them and her underwear down her legs and pulling them from beneath her with a kick of his leg.

He carries her the short distance into the shower. Here, they work together to suds and rinse their hair. Ichabod then lowers her down so he can massage in her conditioner, his back to the steady spray of water, shielding her from its blast. She clutches him around the waist and leans into his solid frame for support. Not wanting to run a coarse sponge over her sensitive skin, he lathers his hands and uses them to cleanse her, sweeping them in cautious strokes over every plane and crevice of her body. She watches him as he works steadily, with sombre reverence, ever mindful of her injuries. As each slow caress rids her of grime, she realizes that he is doing far more than treating her embattled limbs. He is relaxing with nimble fingers the knot inside of her, eroding with every touch the tension and fear that haunt her.

Their eyes find each other and lock together, and in that moment, something changes. She swears she can actually _see_ it happen: that last barrier of internal protectiveness falls away from them both. There is suddenly no part of herself that she does not want him to know, no part of him that is kept in reserve from her. It is a revelation. Love, trust, physical intimacy: all of that had come before, but in **this** instant, the final internal obstacle—the one that shields a person's soul from absolute naked vulnerability—crumbles.

The moment is palpable. They are fixed, minutes seeming to pass, mirroring slack-jawed expressions of pure wonder. The shocking irony of it is not lost on either of them: this devastating trauma, one that would ordinarily have sent them racing to their corners to hide behind air-tight titanium walls, has been the catalyst to open them to each other as never before.

"They…they thought it would weaken us…" she whispers.

"…but they were wrong," Ichabod finishes.

It is exhilarating. They have crossed over, entering a territory neither has traveled before.

Abbie swallows thickly and tries to collect herself. She lays her palm on his chest. His heart thuds, vibrating her hand to its rhythm. "You realize, Crane," she says shakily, "that if I were not in this condition, you would be in serious trouble right now." She licks the drips of water from her lips.

The blue of Crane's engrossing eyes shrinks to a thin rim, and his soapy hands flex smoothly on her hips. "Do you realize, Lieutenant, that were it not for your condition, you'd be against that wall right now?"

She flashes a grin and takes the soap from the dish to lather her hands. She runs them over his forearms, swirling patterns in his hair, tracing up to his neck and back down to his waist. "I'm going to consider that motivation to heal. Fast."

He makes certain that they both are free of suds before cutting off the water. He swaddles Abbie in a giant towel and deposits her in the bedroom, putting a stack of favorite night clothes next to her. By the time he returns from cleaning up the bathroom, she is dressed and has crawled under the covers.

Ichabod closes the blinds and slides into bed, facing her. She stretches her arms out and tugs on his t-shirt, begging softly, "Closer, closer. closer," until their limbs are entwined and their foreheads touch. Crane inhales deeply, the scent of coconut and sandalwood that is distinctly hers, sighing her name as he exhales.

She skates her fingertips around the frame of his face and across his lips. "Your beard is longer," she muses.

"Few things merited attention whilst you were in peril."

"I remember, Crane. I remember all of it."

He brushes a few curls of hair from her shoulder, then massages the back of her neck with his palm as she speaks, purging herself of every graphic bit, every sick lie that Pandora and The Hidden One had used to try to break her and the truth of how so very close they were to doing it. She has to get it out; she has to release it to him because the weight of it can only be carried together. He hates to hear even a word of it, but what he feels for her is stronger than his rage. Instead of smashing the window with his fist and cursing God himself, he listens silently and keeps her warm and absorbs every tear that blossoms on her cheek.

The effort of speech and movement is taking its toll on her. She is quiet for a time, and Crane wonders if she has drifted off to sleep. Her mouth tickles the shell of his ear with lengthening breaths. Then he feels a hand press lightly against his bicep. "There's something else you need to know, Ichabod."

"What's that, Treasure?"

"In all of it, the only thing I had was you, my memories of you."

"Abbie…"

"You were my tether. I wouldn't have lasted without that."

"You were mine as well, Lieutenant. I could feel your presence; your face visited my dreams. As ever, you were my strength."

"When I came back, I knew right away it was you that took me out of the water. Do you remember what I said?"

"You said, 'Home.' You wanted to return to Sleepy Hollow."

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I meant I _was_ home."

"How is that?"

Her voice has grown faint. "Home is where you feel safe…where you hide your secrets and keep everything you love most. So if I'm with you, I'm home."

Since he awoke in the modern era, Crane had perpetually thought of his home as a time period, a past that he had been forced to leave behind. Estranged from what had made him the man he was, he would remain incomplete, relegated an outcast. But here, with this glorious woman, with her backbone of granite and her heart as vast and powerful as the ocean, he understands that his "Colonial soul" as he once had termed it, was little more than a chalk outline; the core substance, what truly made him whole, could not have come without her.

Before he knew her, he had been homeless all along.

Abbie's head sinks deeper against the pillow, her small reserve of energy spent. Ichabod loosens the sheet and pulls her around gently so that he can cocoon her completely within his grasp. He tucks her head beneath his chin, and for the first time in more than a month, he allows a delicious, dreamless sleep to overtake him.


	7. Her Last Battle

The face that stares at Abbie in the bathroom mirror is one she almost wishes she didn't recognize. "Now that is **rough** , Mills," she says aloud, running her index finger along the cuts on her forehead and the mottled purple that rims her right eye. Three days have passed, but her joints still ache and her muscles are stiff. She rolls her neck, leaning against the vanity for support. She splashes water on her face and works to tame the mats on her head to something resembling hair.

When she returns to the bedroom, Crane pops from the edge of the bed where he's been perched, waiting for her. "Allow me, my lady," he states, bowing from the waist with mock formality. Abbie giggles as he takes her hand and leads her around to her side of the bed where a tray sits. He fluffs pillows to prop her up against the headboard and places the tray on her lap: bran flakes, a cup of raisins, soy milk, and tea.

Ichabod reddens slightly. "I'll grant it's not the most elegant of meals. I had to see what the pantry had to offer as I have not made many trips to the market of late."

Abbie fingers thoughtfully the sprig of holly cut from a bush outside that he's placed in the tray's corner in a small crystal vase. She'd planted the bush herself, shoveling in dirt while listening to Crane's dissertation on holly's relevance to pagan peoples. "I just think it's pretty," Abbie had replied, rolling her eyes. "And in winter, when everything else in this town looks dead, it's bright and festive and makes me smile."

Of course he remembered.

She raises her eyes to his and smiles warmly. "I couldn't love anything more."

He presses a kiss to her soft lips and stretches out at the foot of the bed, propping himself up on his elbow.

Abbie munches on her breakfast while Crane, between sips of tea and bites of granola bar, fills her in on random news items. "Also, your supervisor at the FBI continues to ring the house, inquiring as to your plans. I imagine you look forward to returning for duty."

Her jaw slows some. "Yeah, sure." Then she washes down the mouthful with a swig of tea and shrugs. "I don't know, Crane."

He blinks, confused. "Lieutenant?"

She draws a long breath and leans back against the pillows. "About the FBI." The right side of her face cinches up. "It just hasn't been…well, it just hasn't been what I thought it would be."

"How do you mean?"

"Don't get me wrong—I'm glad I went to Quantico and finished the training. And the knowledge and experience have been useful, but…"

She frowns, clutching the warm ceramic mug with both of her palms, unable to find the right words. Crane waits, lightly massaging her small feet with his fingertips.

Finally, she sighs. "When I was a little girl, there was always havoc going on, you know? With my mother and Jenny and foster homes, everything was always a **mess**. All I ever dreamed of was being 'normal,' having that perfect little cookie-cutter life that everyone else seemed to have. As I got older, I was determined to put as much distance as I could between myself and that insanity, which is what originally made me think of the FBI. That was going to be my ticket—if I got the dream job, it meant I'd gotten my dream life."

Crane moves the tray to the top of the dresser and sits against the headboard next to her, sliding his arm around her shoulders. "You were trying to rise above the hardship. That is admirable."

Abbie huffs a laugh, relaxing against his reassuring warmth. "I guess." Her eyes moisten, gazing into a distance that only she can see. "I've been thinking about Corbin. I know he was proud of me for getting into the Academy, but he thought I was just running away…and I suppose he wasn't really wrong." She places her mug on the side table and wraps her arms around Crane's waist "I'm tired of running."

"What are you trying to say, angel?"

"Three years ago, being an FBI agent was the most important thing in the world to me. See, if I got to the FBI, it'd make me a whole person—finally—because if I **did** something so worthwhile, I might actually **be** worthwhile."

Crane blinks slowly, aghast. His arm tightens around her. "There is no version of reality that cannot have your worth as immeasurable."

She has a sudden vision of hunching in a creaky wooden chair in the dingy hallway at Child Protective Services while people in suits and polyester skirts brushed by without a single glance, as if she were utterly invisible. "Let me tell you, it certainly didn't feel that way."

"And now?"

"It's just a job," she replies simply. "I mean, it's a job I enjoy and am proud to do, but after everything that we've just been through? It's really just a job, and like any employee, I'm dispensable there. Sophie Foster could take over my cases easily, and—"

"That's preposterous!" he splutters indignantly. "If the authorities do not recognize you as a superior strategist, an expert at combat capable of leveling a room full of opponents many times your mass, your ability to…"

As he blusters, Abbie's eyes close briefly, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. _This man…_ She calms him with a squeeze of his torso and a kiss to the exposed tendon of his neck, which suddenly protrudes sharply as his teeth clench. Patient, languid swirls of her tongue tame his ire to enraptured silence. Overcome, he cannot resist turning to capture her lips, full and sensuous and wonderful.

At length, he clears his throat, his voice an octave lower. "My apologies, Lieutenant, but the Federal police would be fools not show the proper respect to one as gifted as you."

"I appreciate that, Crane, but that's just it—it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what **their** take is; my heart just isn't in it."

He raises an eyebrow. "And where does your heart lie?"

She tilts her face up and pauses. Ichabod recognizes it as the same expression that had surfaced before she confessed to him the truth about her past with Jenny: raw and unflinching. She looks to the ceiling and exhales audibly. "I am a Witness." Her tone is oddly formal, her words an allocution to accompany a guilty plea. "I have fought demons no one's ever heard of…Horsemen of the Apocalypse…the freaking Tooth Fairy! I have been to Purgatory and a circle of Hell. I have traveled back and forth through time. And I am sitting here with a man whose heart literally stopped beating 234 years ago." She levels her gaze at him. As her hand brushes the tail of his beard, her voice softens. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Officer Mills had, since the beginning, committed to the fight inherent in the role that had been thrust upon her. She did what she had to do to defeat whatever enemy was at hand. But that is how she had tried to keep it—a role, she the actress picked to perform it. Repeatedly, she had beat back the lunacy of supernatural entanglements to keep it from _becoming_ her, and that internal war had never ceased simmering in the periphery of her mind.

"At one time I wanted nothing more than to walk away from all of it and pretend it didn't exist; I tried to control everything in my life, to keep it all separate and neat, but now I'm sick of it. Control is not following everybody else's rules; control is making my _own_ rules. I'm done believing that 'conforming' is the same as 'living.' I kept thinking of myself as a cop who also fights demons, but I'm not—I'm a demon fighter who also works as a cop. This is who I am. _This_ is what I'm here for."

Crane meets her eyes steadily. He has spent much time in the last three years probing their magnificent depths, yet among the enchanting copper flecks, he detects an unfamiliar shimmer. Is it determination, or maybe resolve? No. It is peace. The longest and bloodiest battle Abbie ever had faced was the one within herself. It has been terribly hard-won, this victory, and richly deserved. Her triumph, that firm sense of certainty, now lights her from sole to crown. It makes his heart impossibly full.

Crane nods slowly. "I see." He tugs on her shoulders, and she follows the motion, climbing onto his lap. His fingertips trace the line of her collarbone. "You are an extraordinary woman, Grace Abigail Mills."

She peeks at him through her thick lashes. "I am?"

"You are. It is my solemn vow to work every day to be worthy of your partnership."

Her arms slide up to encircle his neck. She smooths her cheek against his in slow circles and hums into his ear. "Come what may?"

His eyes close involuntarily. His arms drop to her waist, and his hands spread across her back, pulling her higher and tighter against him. He dips his head to savor the silken hollow of her neck. "Come what may."

Her fingers reach up and tangle into his hair. Breath shallowing, she tilts back slightly to look him directly in the face. "Ichabod, do you know what comes next?"

The hand that cups her cheek is strong and sure. "I do."


End file.
